


Obstacle 1

by LikeSatellites, ScarlettSiren



Category: ATEEZ (Band), K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Escorts, Alternate Universe - Not K-Pop Idols, Alternate Universe - Sports, But More to Come!, Escort Service, Escort Yeosang, First Chapter is a Stand-Alone One Shot, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Sex Work, Sex Work Positive, Soccer Player Jongho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 12:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19084837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeSatellites/pseuds/LikeSatellites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettSiren/pseuds/ScarlettSiren
Summary: “You’re a virgin?!”“I just. I wanna learn first,” Jongho whinges, gesticulating in a way he’s not sure is getting his point across. “For sports we have coaches, okay? And for school you have tutors. Are there people who do that for sex? Sex experts? Sexperts?”“I know someone. Let me… get you his number. I think he’s exactly what you’re looking for.”Wooyoung introduces him to Yeosang.





	Obstacle 1

**Author's Note:**

> ScarlettSiren A/N: I have been desperately trying to get Becca into Ateez since winter, so imagine my delight when she finally fell head over heels for them AND wanted to collab with me for her first fic of the fandom? I was thrilled. This is honestly 80% her writing I was just along for the ride. And she got me to write Jongho for once!! She's truly amazing~
> 
> LikeSatellites A/N: Hello, Atiny!!!! So nice to meet you!!!! I had so much fun with this. Shoutout to Sam for getting me into ATEEZ and getting me writing ATEEZ fic like honestly so fuckin fast I have whiplash. Enjoy!!

Wooyoung arrives with the grease-bottomed paper fast food bags. 

“You’re my everything,” Jongho says, throwing his uniform into the large laundry sack they all share. “Please tell me you g—”

“Yes,  _ three _ filet o’ fish because you’re an absolute monster,” Wooyoung replies, pulling out three loosely-wrapped fish sandwiches. “With extra mayonnaise, too, because, again, you’re a monster.”

Jongho tears open the first sandwich and squirts two packets of mayo between the bun and fish. “This is my post-workout recipe for success, you know that.”

“I hate that,” San says, slurping at his extra thick vanilla shake like it’s somehow superior to Jongho’s world-renowned filet o’ fish. “For you. For me. For all of us.”

Wooyoung throws his jersey into the laundry bag and takes a seat on the lacquered wood bench across from Jongho, avoiding his face as he eats. 

“Now that we’re here, there’s something I need to address,” Wooyoung says, tugging at the hem of San’s gym shorts to get him to take the spot beside him on the bench. 

“If this is about the fabric softener mishap—”

“Fabric softened mishap?” San repeats, brow arching like he’s waiting for some  _ tea _ .

Jongho slowly brings the fish to his lips again and bites down, chewing so slowly he hopes San and Wooyoung will forget what they were talking about. 

“Anyhow,” Wooyoung says, giving Jongho the side-eyes, the ones that can either be sex-on-a-stick or -R. U. N.-, so Jongho remains quiet, chewing. “It’s about something you mentioned the other day after ten red-bull vodkas.”

Jongho freezes mid-chew, mayo thick and greasy on his tongue, coating the back of his throat. “So this  _ is _ about the fabric soften—”

“You’re a virgin?”

Jongho blinks slowly. So he’s spared about the fabric softener. For now. 

This he can handle. He simply nods with a shrug.

“You’re a  _ virgin _ ?!” San repeats, higher-pitched, bordering on shrill.

“What happened to ‘virginity is a social constructed used to shame people’?” Jongho scoffs, reaching again for his fish.

Wooyoung swats his hand away. “I say this as your dearest friend, Jongho, but what the fuck?”

Jongho taps his sneaker against the bottom of the locker, and it rings out loud and metal. “It just never came up. I got onto this team before I even finished high school. I just went from soccer games once a week to soccer practice twice a day, gym twice a day, eating so much that I’ve started just drinking a can of soup as my accompanying beverage with meals, soccer games three times a week...you know, it just never came up?”

“But we go out, you know? Bars with the guys after the game? You  _ do _ have free time. I’ve seen you playing Sim City at four a.m. on Steam.”

“Why are  _ you _ up at four a.m., huh?” Jongho counters, shoving half a fish sandwich into his mouth at once. 

“ _ I’m _ having sex.  _ Look _ at me. If I’m up at four a.m., there better be a damn good reason, but  _ you _ ? Sim City. You’re lucky only Sannie and I know about this.”

San unlocks his phone screen and shows their team group chat, finger hovering over the send button. “Let us help you.”

“It’s not a big deal!”

And it isn’t. Jongho isn’t ashamed of being a virgin. He’s just...like all the other hobbies and talents he’s got, he’d rather be well-practiced before heading to the Big Game. Watching porn is like playing Wii Golf and then signing yourself up for the PGA Masters. 

“Are you nervous?”

“What if I’m bad? You know, like that first time I tried to play badminton and ended up launching the shuttlecock almost into space,” Jongho whines, slapping the tops of his thighs with his mayo-y, sweaty palms. 

Wooyoung looks at San. They exchange the kind of glances that could mean only one thing for Jongho: they’re going to mock him relentlessly until his skin falls from his bones and turns to dust.

“We’ve settled it, then. I’m helping you.”

Oh no.

This is  _ worse _ . 

Jongho stands, hands in the air in surrender. “Hey, whoa, whoa, Wooyoung, you know I would fall on fifteen swords for you—”

“After the first one, I think you’d just be dead—”

“But I don’t think this is something I want on our official friendship permanent record. Especially my first time like this. If I fuck you, I want it to be like  _ kkkkblammy _ , you know?” He gestures an explosion with his hands. “That’s what you deserve.”

San steps closer and Jongho throws up a firm hand between their bodies. “You on the other hand. Don’t even think about it, Mr. Let me tell you about this one time I fucked an acrobat troupe in the rafters above a nomadic circus tent,  _ while _ the circus was occurring. Do not touch me with one of those wild-fuckin-fingers.”

San guffaws, but he’s too busy smirking over the memory to really be offended.

“I just. I wanna  _ learn _ first,” Jongho whinges, gesticulating in a way he’s not sure is getting his point across. “For sports we have coaches, okay? And for school you have tutors. Are there people who do that for sex? Sex experts? Sexperts?”

San and Wooyoung exchange a look. Jongho used to be weirded out by the way they seem to have telepathic conversations with each other, but now it’s just normal, San-and-Wooyoung-stuff. Just a thing they do.

Their silent mental conference ends, and they both stare at him for a moment before Wooyoung speaks.

“I know someone. Let me… get you his number. I think he’s exactly what you’re looking for.”

***

The next week, Jongho is pacing the length of a one-bedroom hotel suite in the heart of downtown and thinking  _ maybe this wasn’t his best idea _ .

It isn’t even really  _ his _ idea. He is merely an agent of San and Wooyoung’s madness. He doesn’t know why he plays along.

When there’s a knock on the door…a distinct, sharp quartet, he nearly jumps out of his skin. It takes him several seconds to work up the nerve to open it.

The guy looks incredibly out of place there, in the doorway at this hotel that thinks framed photos of babies with floral arrangements placed delicately around them is art and has carpeting that may have seen the first ice age. 

Honestly, Jongho is hesitant to refer to him as ‘guy’ in his head because truly there shouldn’t be a word for this kind of beauty. This kind of sharp, slanted-eyed, soft, soft,  _ soft _ .

“Jongho, right?”

It speaks. Deep, mellow. Like water pushing up from the depths of a stone-walled well. Earthy. Warm. 

“‘s me,” Jongho replies, and the …  _ he _ … steps forward like he might enter the room. 

“I’m Yeosang. The one Wooyoung told you about? We spoke on the phone before.”

But his voice sounds so different. So much purer. His voice in person is like sun through a curtain.

Jongho basks. 

“Okay, so, can you let me in?”

His ears are like delicate swirls of clay. Jawline sharp but swelling up into his softer cheeks. His mouth is small, round. Lips shiny like he’d just wet them before opening the door. 

“Seriously, this is weird. I’m just loitering in this gross hallway. I think there’s a dead bird by the ice machine three doors down. I can smell it.”

Jongho doesn’t like that this heavenly creature is displeased with the scent.

He gestures inside with flourish. “Please.”

Yeosang’s hair is pink. Bright pink. Pink like sidewalk chalk after a quick storm. 

“Pink,” Jongho says aloud, stupid. 

“Yeah, on the phone...you remember the phone call, right? That we had just three hours ago? To confirm?”

Jongho nods. 

“I asked what your preferences are. What you like.”

“Mhm, I remember that.”

“Well you didn’t say anything for a full minute and then you just mumbled the word  _ pink _ , so that was all I had to work with.”

Now that Jongho really looks, the pink does appear like a film over his hair. Like a spray of paint. “You made yourself pink for me?”

“I’ve done worse,” Yeosang shrugs. 

Jongho clears his throat, “Um. Thank you. It’s…really nice.”

“You’re welcome,” Yeosang says, his voice too-kind, like the girl at the Starbucks who hands you your coffee and cannot wait for you and the other eighty people looking for their caffeine fix at seven a.m. on a Monday morning to leave. “So, are you going to tell me what else it is that you like?”

Jongho flounders, “I, uh. Don’t really…know. I’m just kind of…I’ve never done this? Before?”

“Wooyoung mentioned that,” Yeosang murmurs, glancing around before his eyes rest upon Jongho again. “Well, you have me for the next five hours, so you can start whenever you’re ready.”

Jongho startles, looking a little panicked. He feels like someone’s just handed him the reins of an ill-behaved horse and told him “good luck!” This is precisely what he’s looking to avoid.

“Well, um, actually, I was hoping that you could offer me some, uh—”  _ Don’t say coaching, don’t say coaching!  _ “—guidance.”

Yeosang blinks at him. He thinks he might see just the barest trace of emotion cross his features: surprise.

“Guidance,” He repeats, almost a question.

“Y-yeah, you know, like. Where to start. What you like. What’s good and what’s not.”

Jongho feels like a colossal idiot. Like a newborn foal staggering on the lawn, desperately trying to gain some kind of footing.

“What do you normally do with virgins?” He tries.

Yeosang’s face is back to its beautiful mask of apathy. He’s still the prettiest human being Jongho has ever seen. “Usually they just do what they want, and I let them. You know. Experiment.”

Jongho pictures Yeosang spread out on the bed in all his gorgeous, apathetic glory while he desperately feels his way around some attempt at sex. Like a child sticking their fingers into a full carton of milk. Just a big, clumsy mess. 

The thought horrifies him.

Yeosang takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He pats the spot beside him on the duvet, and Jongho nervously drops down beside him. 

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you’ve probably kissed someone, right?”

Jongho flashes back to middle school. Watching some reality show on MTV while his neighbor pulled him back against his father’s tractor in the garage. It was summer, hot, slick with sweat. He doesn’t remember liking it all that much.

“Sure.”

Yeosang remains deadpan as he says, “Okay so kiss me.”

Jongho’s fingers twitch at the command, wanting to obey. Wanting to know how skin like that feels beneath his fingertips. Like it might be so soft it won’t feel like anything at all. Air. 

“How do you like it?”

“How do I like kissing?”

Jongho looks at Yeosang’s lips. They’re small but plush and pink, and Jongho thinks lips like those deserve everything. “Yeah. Do you like it slow? Gentle? Building? Forceful?”

“This is really more about you, you know. I’m a hired service,” Yeosang says, rubbing at the shell of his ear like he’s uncomfortable. 

“Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to make you feel awkward, I just...I’m really trying to learn to do this the right way, and I figure that starts with asking  _ you _ what you want.”

Yeosang puts a hand on Jongho’s thigh. It’s warm, and his fingers are small and pale. His fingers don’t even wrap to the end of Jongho’s thigh. There’s something there that sings hot in Jongho’s belly. 

“I like to be kissed like you want to kiss me. Just give me what you want.”

A hand is tangling in the hair at the nape of Jongho’s neck and pulling. Yeosang guides their faces close, so close that their breaths mingle between them, so close that Jongho can smell strawberry bubblegum on Yeosang’s tongue. Something else that’s pink for Jongho. 

With just one small movement, Jongho presses their lips together. The strawberry hits him, but beneath that there’s warm, slick, movement and hands against his chest. Before he realizes it, Jongho is lifting Yeosang up over his legs on the edge of the bed, until Yeosang’s straddling him. 

The weight against him is euphoric. When Wooyoung said Jongho is the definition of touch-starved, Jongho had protested with a laugh, but this...this almost confirms it. Jongho’s whole body is singing with the feeling of beating, pulsing blood so close to his own beating, pulsing blood. The sounds of their breath, cut off into quick pants and gasps between kisses. 

With each break apart, Jongho feels the need to shorten the distance. Yeosang moves so easily, effortlessly, settling in against him like he belongs there. Jongho wants to feel more of it. Get closer. His fingers skim beneath the hem of Yeosang’s t-shirt, and his skin of his hips feels almost scalding against Jongho’s desperate palms. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Jongho says.

“Keep going. Keep touching me,” Yeosang gasps against his lips, grabbing Jongho’s hands and guiding them up, up over his ribs. 

Jongho, for a brief moment, does not feel as though he is entirely out of his depth. He is good at following directions.

His palms slide upward, grazing over the hills and valleys of his rib cage. He stops at Yeosang’s pectorals, letting his thumbs catch across his nipples. He rolls the pads of his thumbs over them in slow, gentle circles, opening his eyes to watch Yeosang’s reaction, to gauge what he likes.

Yeosang’s breath catches a little, stuttering out in a soft, staccato moan. He grinds down onto Jongho’s lap, fingers curling hard into the front of his shirt. Jongho feels it shoot through his gut like molten lava; bubbling, overflowing,  _ heat _ . It’s a visceral need from somewhere deep inside him, buried, untouched. He  _ needs _ Yeosang, needs to feel him, the warmth of him, and those  _ sounds _ , god how he wants to pull every glorious sound from him that he can possibly manage.

Jongho’s hands slip back down, grabbing at the hem of Yeosang’s shirt. He pulls back until their lips part, until he can look him in the eyes. “Can I?”

“Whatever you want, baby,” Yeosang coos, and Jongho barely strips him of it before he’s hauling him in again, kissing him breathless.

That heat is roiling again inside his gut, rising every time Yeosang rolls his hips down to meet him. Jongho’s hands roam his chest once more, and his reactions are just too sweet to ignore. He pulls his mouth away from that strawberry bubblegum paradise to dip his head down and lave his tongue over one of his nipples, experimental.

Yeosang’s skin is so smooth and soft beneath his lips. Like kissing a nectarine. He moves back up, sucks the flesh between Yeosang’s neck and shoulder into his mouth to hear the way Yeosang keens, to feel the way he rocks down hard against Jongho’s hips, to feel the nails at his back, just teasing over the skin. 

“That’s it,” Yeosang says, slipping a hand between their bodies to press in against Jongho’s cock. He’s regretting the sweatpants he’d thrown on after a shower. There’s only the thin fleece material between Yeosang’s firm, delicate fingers and Jongho’s dick. No one has ever touched his cock, Jongho realizes, aside from himself. It isn’t all that different but makes a world of difference. Mentally, Jongho sometimes forgets he has a dick. 

It’s there. Between his legs. Needing to be shifted around so he can sit in a towel after practice. He gets hard. He takes care of it.

But Yeosang is moving like he wants to draw pleasure from the bubbling depths of Jongho’s deepest pit of arousal. Like he wants Jongho to shake.

Which he might be doing.

He grabs Yeosang’s waist and tosses him back against the mattress. Beneath a tuft of fluffy pink hair, Yeosang growls, “Ask before you just throw me around? If you’re going for authenticity.”

Jongho looks down at his hands which have betrayed him. “I’m sorry. I normally just work with objects that don’t mind me tossing them around. I mean, not that you’re an object. You’re absolutely not. I meant like...balls. Oh god. Uh, okay, sorry about manhandling you. I will note that for the future.”

The corner of Yeosang’s lips twitches. He lifts his brows expectantly and holds his arms out. “C’mon then. Make it up to me.”

Jongho reaches for Yeosang’s belt. “I want to see you. And touch you. Can I?”

Yeosang nods, sitting back against the headboard as Jongho tugs off his jeans, lets his belt hit the carpeted floor with a dull thudding  _ ding _ . Jongho has seen naked bodies. He’s in a shower with ten other guys at once almost daily. Dicks everywhere. Flying around. Swinging. Sudsy. All kinds of naked butts.

But Yeosang naked is something that deserves a frame. Much more than these floral babies on the walls. 

“Excuse me a moment,” Jongho says, standing, his dick hard and clumsy between his legs as he stumbles over to flip around one of the baby paintings that had been staring at him. He waddles back to the bed.

Yeosang is smiling now. 

Smiling with these pretty little rounded-tip teeth. White and cute, tugging his cheeks up high and round in his face. 

He holds his arms back out. 

Jongho climbs up onto the bed, holds himself up over Yeosang, and kisses him more. Kisses him like he wants to share breath. And Yeosang is so responsive, hiking his leg up around Jongho’s waist and pressing their bodies closer. 

Jongho grabs the thick outer edge of Yeosang’s thigh and uses it to maneuver their bodies harder against one another. Grinding them in so their skin can only meet skin. 

“God you feel good,” Jongho groans, nipping at Yeosang’s sharp jawline and wondering how Yeosang’s teeth would feel on his own skin. “Wh-Where do I go now?”

Yeosang scoots back a bit, presses the socked toe of his foot into Jongho’s chest, guiding him away. The air between their bodies is almost frigid. Jongho shivers, looking down at the way Yeosang’s body curves against the crisp white hotel sheets. 

He spreads his thighs wide, bringing his knees up to his chest, baring himself open and smooth to Jongho’s gaze, and Jongho freezes. Just looking. 

“You can touch me.”

Jongho’s fingers trace the line from Yeosang’s thin bony ankle to the bend of his knee, following the curve of his thighs. Everything is pale but flushed pink, the lines of Yeosang’s veins thin and deep blue. 

“Where?”

“Wherever you want,” Yeosang advises, teasing his own fingers in toward his ass, showing himself off. “Just a suggestion, though.”

“One quick question,” Jongho says, throat dry like he’d chugged a tub of flour. “It’s uh....clean?”

Yeosang rolls his eyes. “I’m a professional.”

“Right. I wasn’t...I meant...it’s okay with my hands? Should I wash my hands?”

Yeosang blinks in the light of the dim ceiling lamp. “You want to wash your hands before fingering my asshole?”

Jongho nods.

Yeosang glances over at the bedside clock, neon blue numbers flashing. “We’re nearly thirty minutes in.”

“I’ll be quick,” Jongho says, quickly waddling to the ensuite bathroom to pump soap into his hands. He emerges from the bathroom, shaking his wet hands out, mumbling, “Aaaand ready to rock ‘n roll.”

Yeosang is still laying there, up against the headboard, looking like hyper-realistic carved marble. He holds his arms out again, but now he’s smiling.

Jongho grabs Yeosang by the ankles. “Can I?” 

Yeosang nods, and Jongho pushes them back up to his chest. Yeosang has a little bottle in his hands, one he must’ve found in the convenience store bag Jongho had left on the bedside table. The plastic seal from the lube bottle is torn and laying on the side of the bed next to them. 

Jongho’s hands are shaking. 

Yeosang grabs his wrist, gently, calmly positioning his fingers beneath the lid of the lube. “It’s gonna be cold.”

Jongho feels the liquid, viscous and, indeed, pretty fucking cold, as it seeps over his fingertips. 

“Rub your skin together. Gets it warm.” 

Yeosang is watching him closely. Watching the way his thicker, tan fingers rub together, getting used to the sensation, feeling how the heat of his body spreads into it. Jongho’s eyes flick up to meet his, and Yeosang gives him the barest of nods.

Jongho lowers his hand between Yeosang’s legs. He’s still looking back and forth between there and Yeosang’s face as he lets his slick fingers just barely brush against his rim. The skin jumps underneath the contact. Jongho is looking at him for guidance, for approval, for some indication that what he’s doing is correct. Yeosang raises his eyebrows, expectant.

“Press them inside. One at a time.”

Jongho lets out a shaking breath, nodding automatically. He starts with his middle finger, pushing against him until just the tip breaches him. It’s a little sudden and it startles him. It almost seems like Yeosang’s body is eager to take him. Jongho feels that eagerness reflected in him, too. He licks his lips nervously.

“You can go deeper,” Yeosang tells him, his voice having dropped an octave, it seems. “I can take it.”

Jongho’s other hand braces against one of Yeosang’s knees as he does just that, pressing his one finger just a little deeper into him. Yeosang doesn’t really react at first, just watches him, chewing absently on his own lower lip. Jongho isn’t really sure what he’s doing is right, or if it’s  _ enough _ , but Yeosang isn’t giving him any more direction.

He twists his wrist a little, because he knows that’s something  _ he _ likes when he’s jerking himself off, and his finger curls a little automatically as he pulls out nearly all the way. Yeosang’s mouth drops open a little, and he releases the grip he has on his lip with his teeth when he lets out a soft moan. Jongho feels the thrill of accomplishment run down his spine.

He picks up a rhythm, careful and gentle, but deep and sure. He curls his finger, watching as the muscles of Yeosang’s stomach jump, watching how he lets his head fall to one side and watches him through hooded eyes with a chorus of soft and breathy moans. After a while, Yeosang looks up at him, catches his eyes.

“More.”

Jongho is quick to oblige. He goes slowly, carefully, even going so far as to use more lube because he doesn’t want it to hurt. His second finger slides in alongside the first and Yeosang’s breath catches on a sweet sigh.

Jongho knows he’s hard. He actually doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life. There’s something about the way Yeosang reacts as Jongho press his fingers in deep against his walls from the inside. The way his thighs shake, stomach muscles contracting—the way he releases a sound somewhere between a groan and a cough like he’s almost incredulous, like Jongho is doing something unexpectedly good.

“Can you tell me it feels good? I mean, only if it does, obviously, don’t lie to me,” Jongho says, watching the way Yeosang’s hips ride down over his fingers to get the rhythm right. Jongho is captivated by the sight of his tan skin sinking in. 

“It’s...yeah, it’s good,” Yeosang says, voice a low hum that spreads heat high up into Jongho’s cheekbones like helium filling him from the inside. He’s elated. 

“It’s good,” Jongho repeats, more confidently, as he works a third finger in to the tight slick heat of Yeosang’s body, and Yeosang arches, catlike, gripping at the sheets over his head. 

“Fingers are thicker...than I thought,” Yeosang grits out, but his hips are moving again. Little circles. Down and up. There’s sweat sticking his fluffy fringe to his forehead, the pink staining a bit onto his skin. 

Jongho climbs up over his body a bit, fingers still working deep inside, so he can brush Yeosang’s bangs away from his face. “You’re a bit pink. Sorry.”

Yeosang laughs, and it’s low and sweet like deep dark honey, dripping in Jongho’s stomach like hourglass sand. “Does it look crazy?”

Jongho doesn’t know how to explain that it looks the furthest thing from crazy. It looks magical. Like the happiest accident. Bright beaming pink tingeing Yeosang’s cheeks and temples and a bit on his nose like he’s some otherworldly faerie creature. 

“You’re beautiful,” Jongho says, and it must be the wrong thing to say because Yeosang shoves him away, down onto his back on the mattress. Jongho’s fingers slide free from Yeosang’s body, and he makes a pained kind of whimper. 

Jongho’s back hits the mattress, and Yeosang is on him in an instant, licking the sweat from the column of his throat, nipping at the shell of his ear, hands eagerly roaming the dips and planes of Jongho’s abdomen. 

“I thought soccer players were supposed to be thin and agile,” Yeosang observes, fingertips gentle as they trace the lines of Jongho’s muscles from his shoulders down to the thin trail of hair above his waistband. 

“I’m the beefy one,” Jongho explains, breath shuddering out of him as he watches Yeosang tug down his sweats ever so slightly to run his dull nails over Jongho’s sharp hip bones. 

“You’re pretty thick,” Yeosang says, licking his lips as he does. 

“Is it working for you?” 

Yeosang stares down at Jongho’s face with a bewildered expression. Surprised, maybe. “This is really supposed to be about you, remember?”

“Okay, but let’s say you’re a hottie I’ve somehow convinced to come back with me to my place, and we’re laying like this, and I’m embarrassingly rock solid against your sweet, sweet ass--are you excited to be on this? Or are you just take it or leave it?”

Yeosang doesn’t speak for a moment. His face screws up, lips white at the seam where he’s pressing them together tightly. Then he snorts. 

Full on snorts. 

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I really tried to stay professional there, but you’re so...I mean,” he flicks at Jongho’s nipple, and Jongho yelps and grabs at his wrist to keep him from doing it again. 

“Tickles.”

Yeosang hums like he knew it would. “Let’s just fuck me now, m’kay?”

Jongho takes an unsteady breath in.

“You want to fuck me, right?”

Jongho nods, moving his hands to Yeosang’s narrow waist as Yeosang yanks Jongho’s sweatpants down to his knees, baring his cock. The air is cold, his cock is flushed, and Yeosang won’t stop staring at it. 

“Oh my god please stop,” Jongho whines. 

“Don’t your locker room bros see your junk all the time? Wooyoung told me your cock is pretty fat, but I’m assuming he’d never seen it hard.”

Jongho flicks his gaze to the far wall, where the water-stained back of the flipped baby painting is. “Well, there was the one time he danced to Sunmi in the showers, and it was a knee-jerk reaction, I swear, I mean  _ you _ tell  _ your _ cock not to react to Wooyoung firing a sex bullet at you.”

Yeosang blinks, slow, catlike. “You’re probably right.”

“So...sex now, huh?”

“Only if you want to.”

They both glance at the clock. More time has passed than Jongho thought. He has three hours left. 

“I do.”

Yeosang watches as Jongho struggles with the condom wrapper, resorting to tearing at it with his teeth. Then Yeosang makes him hand it over, limp and slippery, so he can inspect to make sure there’s no tears from the teeth ripping action. He deems it okay and leans back to roll it down over Jongho’s cock, fingers lingering on the way down. 

Jongho shudders, full bodied.

The first touch of his cock to Yeosang’s hole has Jongho gritting his teeth and clutching onto Yeosang’s waist. “Fucking hell.”

“I’ll go slow.”

Jongho is pretty sure he’s the one who’s supposed to say that, but Yeosang lowers himself down in a smooth, gradual, practiced motion that makes Jongho’s muscles all contract at once, like he could burst, blood everywhere, but in a euphoric way, he thinks.

“Okay?”

Jongho’s hips jerk up into the tight heat, and Yeosang’s eyes go wide, hands scrambling on Jongho’s chest, breath knocked out of him. 

“Fuck, sorry! Sorry!”

“Don’t apologize,” Yeosang hisses, fingers splayed out across Jongho’s tan chest to steady himself. “Do it again.”

Jongho holds tight to Yeosang’s waist, soft and narrow beneath his palms, as he ruts up again. Yeosang’s head falls back, body arching beautifully under the hideous yellow hotel lighting. The shadows cast under his ribs, his jawline, the delicate swirl of his navel. 

Jongho wants to make him fall apart in the best way imaginable. 

He spreads his knees, keeping Yeosang in place, and starts a rhythm, fucking up into him, letting Yeosang hold on to his shoulders when his chest becomes too slippery with sweat. 

“I hate to be the one to say this,” Jongho groans, stomach tight, pleasure coiling like thick, thick smoke in his gut, “but I’m absolutely about to lose it.”

Yeosang’s eyelids are fluttering, his cock hard and dripping between their bodies. “Chase it, then. We’ve got three more hours.”

So he does. His whole body is damp with sweat, back muscles and thigh muscles straining as he bucks up, burying himself deep into Yeosang, feeling the way he clenches when Jongho grazes something inside him just right. 

Jongho has had many orgasms in his life. The good ones, where he’s alone and having pleasant thoughts about a younger Mia Hamm congratulating him on his first US Open Cup win with some enthusiastic head, as he holds the trophy aloft proudly. 

The awkward clumsy ones when he’s on a retreat with the guys, exhausted after two-a-day practices, balls tight for release as he works himself up under the humid surface of the fleecy sleeping bag with his bros just inches away. 

But this is nothing like those. Not even Mia Hamm made Jongho’s whole body draw so impossibly tight, everything centering on that incredible pulsing heat that rings throughout his blood, emptying his brain of anything that isn’t this moment of pleasure.

His hips work up, slapping against Yeosang’s ass once, twice, three more times before he falls back to the mattress, panting. 

When his eyes open, Yeosang is still there, sitting on his softening cock. “You good?”

Jongho doesn’t think he can formulate words, so he gives a little whistle.

Yeosang smiles. Sweet, chicklet smile.

“‘m gonna make you come now,” Jongho mumbles.

“You don’t have to,” Yeosang says, waving dismissively like he’s maybe used to that. 

Jongho shifts up, abs protesting and exhausted, but Jongho has been through much rougher than this. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, he could probably go a while. He’s getting to that place where his muscles are burning in the best way, and he wants to keep that high going. 

“I want to know what it looks like when you come, though,” he says, hooking an arm around Yeosang’s waist and rolling them over so he’s laying on his back beneath Jongho. Jongho finally pulls out, gently tugging the condom off and tying the end. He stares at it, grimacing. 

Yeosang reaches up to tangle his fingers in Jongho’s messy, sweaty hair. “You want me to come? Touch me then,” he murmurs, lifting up to nip at Jongho’s bottom lip. 

Jongho falls back into kissing him. Feeling the way Yeosang’s tongue traces the seam of their lips. The way Yeosang’s hands get more and more frantic as they move over Jongho’s body when Jongho slips a thigh up against Yeosang’s cock. It’s hard and slick and velvety, and Yeosang almost sounds like he’s singing, a low crooning song. Something like jazz. 

Yeosang takes Jongho’s hand and guides it to his cock. “It isn’t much different than what you do to yourself. Just let me tell you how I like it.”

Jongho wraps his fingers around the warm smooth skin and tugs gently. 

“Harder.”

He does it again, obeying.

Yeosang’s head falls back to the mattress, and he gasps out, “ _ Yes _ .”

His legs fall open, knees up, and Jongho remembers the shocked, pleasured sound Yeosang had made when he’d fucked into him just right. There’s a ring of lube still wet there, so Jongho presses his fingers back in easily.

Yeosang bucks up, crying out brokenly. “Yeah,  _ fuck _ , yeah like that.”

One hand working at Yeosang’s cock, Jongho fucks his fingers in, searching out that sound, that sound like warm molasses that falls from Yeosang’s lips. 

Yeosang’s whole body is moving. Fingers gripping and releasing the sheets beside him on the bed. Feet slipping with sweat against the mattress as he rolls his hips. The air is hot, thick, filled with the sounds of Yeosang gasping and Jongho’s fingers desperately trying to pull pleasure from Yeosang’s body. He feels like he’s sat on the dock of some mysterious river, waiting for the moment when there’s a tug on his fishing line. 

Yeosang moans brokenly, almost squeaking. “There, there, there,” he chants, and Jongho reels it in. Reels it in fast and hard, working both his hands despite the burn in his wrists, because Yeosang is practically singing for him, ribs rising and falling fast as he pants and ruts himself down desperately. 

“You look so good,” Jongho groans, mesmerized. “You look so fucking good, Yeosang, what the fuck.”

“Yeah?” Yeosang gasps, shuddering, thighs shaking and body clenching up. “I’m—I—”

Jongho watches the moment Yeosang comes, eyelids falling closed, lashes dark against his cheekbones, lips parting on a low moan that drags on as Jongho keeps stroking him through it. The sticky heat of his release spills over Jongho’s fingers. 

Yeosang’s eyes open, dark and hooded. He watches, amused, as Jongho brings his slick fingers to his lips. Flicks his tongue out to taste. Winces. Drops his hand to the blanket and rubs the rest off there. 

“An acquired taste, for sure,” Yeosang says after a moment.

Jongho laughs. “Why anyone should need to acquire a taste for sperm, I can’t say.”

Yeosang rolls over onto his side, eyes falling to Jongho’s cock. “Some people don’t even need to acquire a taste.”

The clock beside them says they have two hours left. 

“Hey, quick question before orgasms round two?”

Yeosang gestures for him to continue, still looking rather amused.

“What would you say is your favorite color?”

Yeosang’s lips part, stunned. “My favorite color?”

Jongho nods, raking his sweaty matted hair from his face with what he belatedly realizes was the come hand. “Yeah, like mine is orange.”

“Green,” Yeosang says. “I would’ve thought yours would be pink.”

Jongho licks at his thumb (THE SPERM THUMB, AGH), and wipes at a perfect pink droplet of dye down the bridge of Yeosang’s nose. “Pink is nice. You look good in pink. Though I’m sure you look good in all colors.”

Yeosang stares at him for a moment, and something in his expression is a little worrying. Jongho realizes he probably fucked up again without realizing it.

“Thanks,” Yeosang grunts before he can stammer out an apology for… something. Whatever it was he did.

“Right. Um.” Jongho clears his throat. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels out of his depth again. He’s just had his dick in Yeosang, right? They have a rapport. “So…”

“You mentioned a second round. I assumed you had something in mind.” Yeosang says.

“Yeah!” Jongho’s hands smooth down his own thighs absently, resting at his knees. “I, uh. I was kind of hoping to learn how to, um… give head? Good head.”

Yeosang sits up, and the furrow of what might’ve been discomfort or confusion at the center of his brow smooths out. “Okay. We can do that.”

Jongho is going to ask Yeosang how he likes it, what’s most comfortable, where to even  _ start _ , but then he’s moving, cupping his hands over Jongho’s hips and nudging him toward the headboard. He goes obediently.

Jongho’s dick has already checked back in. He’d been so desperately turned on while he was working Yeosang to his own orgasm that he’s already sporting a semi. When Yeosang crawls between his legs and balances with both his palms on Jongho’s thighs, it twitches in interest.

“I didn’t… uh, I kind of meant…um…” Jongho means to protest, he does, but it comes out a garbled, mumbled mess of sounds and Yeosang doesn’t seem to get the message.

“Everyone has preferences, but it’s usually good to start slow.” Yeosang tells him, his head dipping down so he can run his tongue along the inside of his thick thick thigh. “Build the anticipation.”

Jongho gives a strangled sound of affirmation to signal that he understands. Yeosang starts teasing along the seam of his thigh with little kitten licks, his nose tucked against Jongho’s cock, so close that his breath ghosts over it enticingly. Jongho has already come once but somehow after too long, the sensation is so  _ torturous _ . He thinks he might die if Yeosang doesn’t touch him,  _ really  _ touch him. Yeosang seems to read that on his face, or the way his hips have started gyrating in desperate circles, or in the needy gasps and half-formed breaths he’s been reduced to.

When Yeosang finally lays the flat of his tongue against the base of him, drags up from root to tip in one long, languid stroke, Jongho shakes. When Yeosang wraps his lips around him, taking him down to the hilt, he shivers, his hand automatically finding Yeosang’s hair and carding into it. He doesn’t grab hard; he’s trying so so hard to be gentle, to control his strength and his most immediate urges, but his hips buck just a little too hard involuntarily and cause Yeosang to start. Jongho whispers a breathless apology as Yeosang presses a hand into his hip, pinning him to the bed.

Jongho is watching him. Watching the way his head bobs up and down in a steady rhythm, the way his cheeks bulge a little from the girth of him, the way his lips look stretched around him. His hand is wrapped around the base of him, where his mouth doesn’t always reach, and his wrist twists when it meets his lips. Yeosang really is an expert at this. Jongho can already feel that heat coiling tight behind his navel, threatening.

“Stop, s-stop,” Jongho hisses out suddenly, and Yeosang obeys. He pulls off of him with a lewd suck, his expression somewhat confused. Jongho releases his hair; his hand comes away pink.

“Something wrong?”

“I don’t… I didn’t wanna come yet,” Jongho explains, catching his breath. “Let me, ah… let me try? On you? Can I?”

Yeosang stares at him for a moment, his expression somewhat guarded. He picks up the corner of the sheet and wipes Jongho’s hand off, staining the almost-white linen.

“If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah! Um, do I just…?” Jongho rests his hands gently on both of Yeosang’s hips, waits for the okay. When Yeosang nods, he bodily maneuvers him back onto the pillows, then settles between his legs. 

Yeosang is much larger than Jongho had originally appraised him to be. Not as thick as Jongho in the nethers, but definitely lengthier. Jongho wraps both hands around him and just tries to mentally psyche himself up to slide it into his mouth. 

“This is a lot more daunting than I anticipated,” Jongho admits, just staring at the beaded precum at the tip of Yeosang’s cock. “Porn makes it seem so effortless and sexy.  _ You _ make it seem so effortless and sexy. I just feel like I’m at summer camp, being dared to cram a grape popsicle as far down my throat as possible.”

“Unfortunately I’m not grape flavored, but skin is also a lot easier to...cram,” Yeosang winces, “than an ice pop. There’s no pressure. I’m here for you, remember? Just do what you feel like doing.” He pauses a moment and then quickly adds, “Please don’t bite my dick, though.”

Jongho covers his face with his hands and groans between laughs. “The fact that you think saying ‘do whatever you want to do’ to me implies I might just bite your fucking dick makes me very concerned about how I appear to the outside world.”

Yeosang drops his head back against the headboard, grinning. “Not you personally.”

“Someone else, then? Someone has wanted to bite your dick?”

Yeosang shrugs, which Jongho takes to mean ‘yes.’

“What the fuck,” Jongho just mutters, eyeing Yeosang’s dick and cupping it between his palms again. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the head. 

“I know I said I’m here for you,” Yeosang laughs, low and warm, “but I cannot guarantee I will stay hard if you just want to have a chitchat with my privates.”

“Sorry, sorry! Just a tete-a-tete before the action starts, you know.  _ Head _ to  _ head _ .”

Yeosang rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and sighs. 

Jongho shifts down the bed more, getting low, face-to-dick. He parts his lips. He gets the head of Yeosang’s cock in over his tongue before his nerves kick up, and he pulls off, panting. 

“Why am I so stressed?”

Yeosang tucks a loose strand of wet fringe behind Jongho’s ear and smiles. “It isn’t entirely intuitive to just deep-throat a dick. It’s okay to not want to, and it’s okay to not be great at first.”

“I’m great at most things at first,” Jongho replies bitterly, glaring at Yeosang’s cock. “Gimme another try. I’m going in.”

Another sigh from Yeosang, but this time it breaks off into a groan as Jongho sinks down as far as he can go over the warm, velvety skin. With this as his main motivation, Jongho keeps going. He can feel the pressure at the back of his throat, the buildup and need to breathe, need to clear his throat of the intrusion. 

But Yeosang is panting, deep and sweet and kinda wet, bare feet moving against the sheets, and Jongho knows why people do this now. 

After a couple minutes, Jongho knows there’s spit dripping down his chin, and his eyes are watering, and his jaw is aching, but Yeosang’s thighs are quivering beside Jongho’s head, and he’s gasping and arching and fisting at the headboard behind him.

“If you don’t want me to come,” Yeosang chokes out, “you should stop now.”

Jongho weighs the options in his head. He does, in fact, want to make Yeosang come again, because why the fuck wouldn’t he? But he also wants to fuck him again with the chance of him coming on his dick this time.

He pulls off, spit trailing from his lips to the tip of Yeosang’s dick, and Jongho feels like he’s been drowning and finally rediscovered air. He gasps, throat feeling oddly sore, lips chapped. 

“It gets more enjoyable the more you do it, I promise,” Yeosang says, sounding pretty spent himself, which makes something proud and joyous ring out in Jongho’s chest. 

Jongho looks down between his legs and finds himself pulsatingly hard. “I’m pretty sure I had a better time than you think,” he observes.

Yeosang smiles, and Jongho wants to bottle it, that bright delicate warmth, and sell it on the black market. 

Or maybe just offer it for free to anyone who needs a little pick-me-up. 

Take it to children’s cancer wards and pop the top off and let them feel the precious tendrils of joy and comfort.

Jongho is in some weird hazy space thinking about Yeosang’s bottled smiles, when he hears, “Are you gonna fuck me again now?”

He blinks, and Yeosang is flipped onto his hands and knees, ass lifted up toward Jongho’s face. 

“Oh,” he mumbles, scrambling up to his knees, hands trailing up and down the smooth expanse of Yeosang’s back, fingertips gliding over the ridges of his spine. 

Yeosang hands Jongho another condom, which he attempt to rip without his teeth this time. He fails. Teeth it is. 

Yeosang insists on inspecting the flaccid rubber again. Jongho gets the okay, rolls it down over his achingly hard dick, and grabs for Yeosang’s hips, needing to steady himself on the hotel mattress. 

“I’m gonna make you come,” Jongho says, wishing he could see Yeosang’s face but also wondering if maybe this will be better. Focusing on the motions, the way his cock slides into Yeosang’s already loose body, the way Yeosang sinks his upper body lower and hoists his ass up higher, angling himself into the thrusts just right.

“Do it, then,” Yeosang moans, rocking back so their skin slaps loud and wet in the otherwise quiet room. “Make me come.”

Jongho can feel every minute twitch of muscle as he thrusts. Yeosang’s moans turn quickly to gasps and then to cries. Wet sounding, needy, sweat dripping from the dimples above his tailbone to the valley between his shoulder blades.

His body moves so easily beneath Jongho’s hands, hips pulled to meet hips, and Yeosang’s voice is cracking on each cry now. 

“Keep going,” he groans, face pressed to the sheets, voice barely loud enough for Jongho to pick it up over the sounds of their bodies. “I’m close, I’m—”

Jongho presses his back in against Yeosang’s so he can get his hand beneath him, loosely grasping at Yeosang’s cock where it hangs between his legs. 

Yeosang nearly shouts, the sound broken and watery and so pleasure-filled that Jongho’s vision almost whites out. 

He feels when Yeosang comes, tightening around him, muscles shaking, body suddenly too heavy to hold up. 

For some reason, something inside Jongho insists on pulling out. He gently rolls Yeosang onto his back, and his eyes are red-rimmed, cheeks damp with tear tracks, but his lips are curled up in a pleased smile. 

“So you want to make a mess, huh?”

Jongho eyes the pink powder smeared on the pillows and sheets, along with the wet body-shaped sweat stains. “What’s a little more?”

Yeosang helps peel the condom off, toss it aside with a wet flop onto the hotel floor, and he watches, teary-eyed as Jongho jerks himself to completion over his stomach, eyes sharp like he’s waiting expectantly. 

And maybe there is something worrying about how much the sight of Yeosang’s tear-stained face made Jongho come all the harder, but in a post-orgasmic haze, Jongho has no worries at all. He never understood  _ hakuna matata  _ before jizzing on probably the prettiest boy in the entire world, and it makes so much sense now.

He falls to the sheets beside Yeosang, trying to catch his breath. Beside him, Yeosang runs his fingers through Jongho’s come, spreading it up to his nipples.

Jongho’s cock gives a sad attempt at a twitch. Jongho looks away at the far wall. 

“Well, I did it.”

“You did,” Yeosang says somewhat matter-of-factly.

“So, uh. After. I’m supposed to like, clean us up, right? Maybe, offer you a massage or something?”

Yeosang blinks at him. “With a partner, sure. But you don’t… really need to. For me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Jongho asks, sincerely dumbfounded.

Yeosang levels him with a blank stare. “Do you wash the dishes after eating at a restaurant?”

Jongho turns bright pink, huffing. “No, but I… you know, stack the plates and cups all nice and neat because it makes the waiter’s job easier!”

“Of course you do.” It’s half exasperated, half fond. Yeosang rolls his eyes. “What I’ve offered you is a paid service. You don’t need to do all that.”

“I’m trying to learn to be good at sex. And someone who doesn’t, you know, do all that stuff… that probably makes them bad at sex,” Jongho reasons.

Yeosang lets out a long-suffering sigh, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. “Fine. Clean-up with a warm, wet washcloth is pretty standard.”

Jongho beams, perking up. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment, cleans himself up, then returns with a warm, wet washcloth as suggested. He wipes Yeosang down… first his chest, then between his legs. He goes and rinses off the cloth before returning with it again to gently wipe away the pink sweat running down Yeosang’s forehead and temples.

His makeup comes away, too, and Jongho stares for a moment at the sweet little birthmark next to his eye. “Oh. Pretty.”

He mumbles it, because he hadn’t really meant to say it aloud. Yeosang looks confused for a moment before feeling at his face, then looking at the rag, which is pink and fleshtone, now, with just a hint of his brown eyeshadow and brow powder.

His hand flies up to cover the left side of his face.

“You’re supposed to be getting rid of the sweat and come, not my  _ makeup _ .”

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to, it just…” Jongho’s fingers curl gently over Yeosang’s forearm, trying to tug it away. “You shouldn’t hide it. Like this, or with makeup. It’s really beautiful.”

Yeosang lets his hand be pulled away, but his gaze is elsewhere. He’s staring at the clock. 

Their time is just about up.

Jongho’s fingers brush oh-so-gently across the red skin at the corner of his eye, his temple, down over the curve of his cheek. His words are whisper-quiet when he speaks. “Can I, uh… give you that massage?”

Yeosang turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “That’s really how you wanna spend your last fifteen minutes?”

Jongho nods.

Yeosang presses his lips together, turning over onto his stomach. Jongho gets rid of the rag, then lets his hands work into the muscles at Yeosang’s low back, slowly moving upward along the length of his spine.

This is something he’s good at. He often helps his teammates work out a stubborn knot after a grueling game or an intense practice session. His palms move expertly, stroking firm yet careful, working out all of the tightness. Yeosang seems tense, at first, but soon enough, it feels like he melts under the touch.

Jongho continues until their time is up.

Once the digital clock face flips over to those two zeroes, he pulls back. He’s gotten exactly the amount of time he paid for. It would be presumptuous—and rude—to insist upon any more.

Yeosang’s head tips up when Jongho’s touch leaves him. His eyes fall upon the clock, and he grunts in understanding. He sits up, stretching a little.

“Looks like our time is up.”

“Yeah.” Jongho mumbles lamely. His eyes linger on the left side of Yeosang’s beautiful face.

“I hope this was… exactly what you needed it to be.”

“It was, yeah. Um… thank you.” Jongho half-smiles, and it is only half returned.

Yeosang gathers his clothes, gets dressed and leaves without another word. Jongho stares at the door for minutes too long before he finally flops down onto his back, letting out a long, long sigh.

He should head home. He doesn’t exactly want to stay in this dingy old place, but he can’t find the energy to move.

Jongho stares at the water-stained ceiling and thinks he still doesn’t know a goddamn thing about sex.

His phone trills on the bedside table beside the empty condom wrappers and discarded lube, cap still off. 

[Wooyoung]: well??? He’s gr8 rite????? 

Jongho lets the screen go dark again.

[Wooyoung]: Big ;)

Jongho lets his brain go dark.

**Author's Note:**

> This is rather standalone, but it will be continued!
> 
> You can find us both on Twitter, @likesatellitez and @NecroticNymph


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